


o tannenbaum

by impossiblepluto



Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [7]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Another Christmas and another bomb for Mac to disarm
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552330
Comments: 62
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!  
> Chapters 1-3 will be posted on days 7-9. Hope you enjoy them! 
> 
> Also I'm very behind in responding to comments, but know that I love hearing from you and gleefully read each one! I'm focusing right now on getting all the stories completed on time. And I'm also away from home at the moment, so here's hoping I have wifi to keep up with my posting schedule!  
> Thanks again for reading!

“Get dressed ye merry gentlemen,” Jack sings as he bursts into the War Room. “Let nothing you dismay, for it is Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas Day!”

“It’s Christmas Eve, but good try, Jack,” Mac smirks as he trails into the room behind his partner. 

“It’s Christmas Day somewhere, dude,” Jack says, ignoring the bemused expression Mac sends in his direction and turning to look at Matty near the front of the room. “And thirteen hours until it’s Christmas Day here. So why are we here, Matty? Please tell me it’s just to feed us some freakin’ pudding so we can wish you a Merry Christmas and head out.” 

Matty raises an eyebrow.

“He means ‘figgy pudding’ like in the carol.”

Jack makes a disgusted face. “No, I don’t. Who wants fig pudding?”

“It’s not even really pudding, more of a cake, with figs and raisins.”

Jack gags. “How do you know that?”

“How do you not?” Mac shrugs. 

“That doesn’t make any sense. All those people yelling for pudding and saying they aren’t gonna leave unless they get some? More like if you feed me figgy pudding I’m gonna leave.”

“Great,” Matty interrupts Mac’s impending lecture on traditional Christmas desserts. He's become quite the baking connoisseur in recent months. “If I have some delivered will it get you out of here-”

“You called us, Matty.”

“... and to your in-fil flight, because you guys are wheels up in twenty.”

Mac exchanges a look with Jack. “Matty, I hate to side with Jack on this, but I thought we were off rotation through New Years.”

“And I hate to do this, Mac. I really do, but I need you guys. There isn’t anyone else I can trust with this. I’ll finish briefing you on the plane.”

“That’s never good,” Jack sighs. “Okay, we’ll stop off in TAC to don we now our days of peril.”

Mac opens his mouth to correct yet another lyrical massacre when he spies Matty’s expression. He claps Jack on the shoulder. “This time, I get the feeling those lyrics are the right ones.”

* * *

Mac groans as he slowly comes to awareness. It’s not going to be a good day. Not if his head is already pounding like this. His chest feels tight, heavy and his throat dry. He hopes he’s not coming down with something.

His face feels hot. 

His body aches. 

He’d better not be getting sick.

Jack is going to hover all day long. Can’t he have one Christmas where Jack isn’t trying to take his temperature? Wrap him in blankets on the couch and force soup and tea down his throat. 

Which doesn’t sound terrible at the moment. But he’d really rather have something cold and soothing right now. Maybe Bozer will make him a smoothie. Or Jack will stop at that burger shack they like to get him a strawberry shake. If he's getting sick. Which he's not.

Mac coughs.

A fiery pain tears through his hips. He tries to curl in on himself, pull his legs up to protect himself, but he can't move under the heavy blankets that trap him. That... really don’t feel like blankets. He can’t feel his legs either. There’s a dull pain, alternating with pins and needles. He reaches out to search for answers, and his left arm erupts into a haze of agony. 

_“This is a good sign,” Jack’s voice crackled through the comms as he stalked the perimeter of the office building. Small by LA standards, but fitting in with the smaller feel of northern California. Three industrial-style stories of exposed brick, metal pipes, and walls of windows and glass. Hipster and modern, and surrounded on all sides by gentrifying warehouses.  
_

_The remnants of Christmas parties littered desks, tables, and cubicles. Christmas trees, holly, and lights stretched through the building attached to extension cords. Overloaded extension cords, Mac recognized. Even if they hadn’t had the bomb threat, there was a good possibility the building would be destroyed anyway. From an electrical fire._

_He’ll send the fire department in to cite them when he’s completed his walk through and cleared the building._

_Mac let Jack’s rambling words wash over him as he continued his search for the explosives. They've only been in the building a few minutes and there's still too much square footage for his superstitious partner to start talking positively. Especially on Christmas Eve. “What’s a good sign?”_

_“We’re on forty-third street. The street of Christmas miracles. Hope it has one more miracle left in it, get us home in time for pastrami and Christmas stocking related shenanigans.”_

_“Uh, hate to break it to you, big guy, but you’ve got those numbers transposed.”_ _  
_

_"That’s great. Maybe we’ll get home even faster then. Won’t have to deal with traffic.”_

_Mac’s face crinkled in confusion as he tried to decipher Jack’s train of thought, wondering where he lost his partner._

_“Thought you said that wasn’t possible. Have you been holding out on me?”_

_“No, it’s pretty easy to do,” Mac paused, frowning, and wondered if he was going to regret asking. “What do you think I’m talking about?”_

_“Dematerialize in a shower of sparkles and show up half a galaxy away. Beam me up, Mackie.”_

_“That’s a transporter, and that’s still not something that exists.”_

_“You’re messing with me now.”_

_Mac chuckled. “How about you stick to the Christmas carols. I think that will be easier on everyone.”_

_"Well, if you're sure," Jack paused for a moment before he began crooning. "_ _O tiny, bomb, O tiny bomb. How large are your explosives?”_

_“I guess I asked for it,” Mac mumbled to himself._

His right hand grabs for his left shoulder. Holding, cradling. Groaning. His shirt is torn. Wet. Sticky against his skin. The scent of iron assaults his nostrils and coupled with the pain, makes his stomach roll with nausea. 

He swallows convulsively. He can’t move and the last thing he wants to do is die choking on vomit. His jaw clenched tightly, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes squeezed shut. 

The thudding of his pulse races through his ears. Pounding through his throbbing head. 

Slowly, the rushing sound in his head eases, pain recedes to a manageable level, where he thinks he can take a breath without worrying that his exhale will end with a scream or a moan. 

His shoulder feels distorted under his fingers. Large and displaced. Hot beneath his touch. Wrenched out of place. As long as he doesn’t move it the pain remains at a dull roar, and he can live with that for the moment.

He eases eyelids open, blinking at the gritty burn. 

It’s so dark, he thinks maybe he didn’t actually open his eyes. The pulsating pain in his head makes him panic. For a moment he’s sure the explosion damaged his vision or his head, leaving him trapped in the dark, until his eyes start adjusting. Metal girders, brick, and lumber surround him, as his memories come flooding back. A flash of heat against his skin and an explosive bang he couldn't stop, and then he's tumbling. Falling. Crashing through the darkness.

His vision is still blurry, he attributes that to the concussion he’s sure he must have, and the haze to the settling sheetrock dust. 

With his good arm, he reaches forward, fingers skimming across the surface of the smooth cement block that rests against his hips. Bruising and sore. Uncomfortable. An ache in his legs from his pelvis to his feet. He focuses there, for now, taking a steady breath he tries to move, the pain spikes through his hips He sucks in a sharp breath. Fingers splayed on the cold block, eyes slamming closed again, but he is able to wiggle his toes.

A stuttering breath he didn't realize he was holding against the pain, leaks out of his lungs. 

A creaking, groaning, metal rubbing on metal sound comes from above. A steel beam balances over his head. Reaching up, he can brush his hand against the metal. The movement causes the debris to moan and a shower of dust to crumble over his head.

He chokes and gags, trying to catch his breath, clear his lungs of the thick plaster dust that coats his tongue and gags his throat. The muscles of his chest spasming as he tries to suck in a fresh breath. 

“Jack,” he croaks. His voice a harsh whisper. He flinches as it sends a spike of pain through his head. He reaches up, fingers finding a sticky patch of blood near his hairline. 

_Beneath the lights of the Christmas tree in a conference room, Mac sat in a pile of wrapping paper and bows, systematically taking apart the secret santa gifts, abandoned in the hasty evacuation. He flipped open his knife, sliding it between the plastic seam of the box, prying off the backing to reveal a snarl of wires in red and green, silver and gold._

_At least their bomb maker was feeling festive._

_It’s a mess though. Mac paused, mentally unraveling the wires as he traced them from their origin points to their decoys and detonation caps. It wasn’t the best work Mac had ever seen, but their bombmaker had some serious skills._

_Terrible skills._

_Mac ran a hand through shaggy hair, pushing it back away from his face._

_“O tiny bomb, O tiny bomb,_  
_Your wires are so confusing.”_

_Mac shook his head, as Jack’s tinny voice echoed through the comms. Well, there’s one part of the song Jack wasn’t wrong about. The wires were wrapped around each other in confusing mayhem. He couldn’t help the smirk that crept up on his lips._

_“O tiny bomb, O tiny bomb,_  
_Your wires are so confusing.”_

_“Hey, Jack,” Mac interrupted the latest verse of his song._

_“Yeah, buddy, what’s up?”_

_"I think you’re going to need to revise your song. This is not a tiny bomb.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's opening carol butchering comes from Cabin Pressure


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> As always thank you for reading! I'm still in Texas, but have seen no sign of the Dalton Ranch or our favorite Delta or bomb nerd.

_“Where are ya?”_

_“In a conference room near the southeast corner.”_

_“On my way. How not tiny are we talking about?”_

_“Take out the whole block, not tiny, and I’m not sure it’s the only one here.”_

_“I’m comin’, hoss,” Jack said. “Building is clear. I’m sure.”_

_“And I’ve got you guys on thermals this year, and can confirm,” Riley jumped in for the first time. “That’s one Christmas tradition I don’t want to repeat.”_

_Mac shuddered, remembering a few years ago when he thought his explosive build had killed an innocent man and he’d spent Christmas Eve handcuffed in an interrogation room. Wondering if he’d already spent his last Christmas with his family and never known it. If he didn’t appreciate enough what he had, when he had it._

“Explosions loud and large and bright.  
I hope you won’t explode tonight.” 

_“Me too, big guy,” Mac whispered his response to Jack's song as he pulled open the wire cutters attachment on his knife._

"Jack," Mac calls again. His dry throat makes his voice hoarse and husky. He waits, anxiously listening for Jack's reply, which doesn't come. He lifts his head with a groan, the action putting pressure against his lower back. He ignores it. Jack isn't answering. Peering through the darkness, he clears his throat and tries again. Louder.

His hand moves through the crumbled concrete next to him, searching for a warm hand that should be there. That's always next to him when it hits the fan. Digging through debris, hand scraping and knuckles bloodied. Patting the floor around him, stretching as far as he can reach. Biting his lip as his actions put more strain on his abused body, sifting through the rubble. Blinking hard as dust floats into his eyes. 

The area over his head and to his right is clear, as far as he can reach.

He looks over to his left.

Searching over there is going to hurt.

He wasn't prepared for how much when he tries to roll in that direction.

He slams a fist to his mouth, biting down on already damaged knuckles, tasting the tang of blood against his tongue. He lays his head back, sucking in mouthfuls of air, breathing through the pain.

"Jack, please," he croaks. "Answer me."

The only response to his query is the whine of stressed metal. Not even the buzz of damaged comms. He places a finger to his ear and finds the earbud missing, lost in the chaos of the explosion.

Something deep within the wreckage of the building moans ominously and Mac freezes, waiting for the rest of the building to crash down on top of him. Crushing him. Suffocating him. Burying him alive. 

He waits. Not daring to move. Shallow breaths, trying not to huff and puff lest he acts as the big bad wolf and blows the building down. And if it were just him, he might risk it. But Jack was right behind him.

Jack could be buried, feet away from him, crushed to death, and Mac would never know. Until they found him.

If they find him.

Rescue teams, searching through the shell of the building, if anything even remains standing. For all he knows, he's in a small pocket of safety, with the rest of the building crushing down on him. Smothering him. Burying him in his own tomb to never be found again.

He remembers a moment of falling, hanging in the air before everything went dark. There aren't basements in California, but that doesn't mean the earth didn't split beneath him, a fault line opening, a gaping maw to swallow him whole. Disappearing forever. Just the memory and mystery of Angus MacGyver left behind.

With renewed panic, Mac shoves aside a chunk of ceiling tile, hissing as it crumbles under his touch and slices across his palm. He reaches for the concrete slab laying across him, trying to slide his hand underneath, pushing up with his legs enough so he can wiggles free.

He pushes and strains and screams as fire erupts across his hips with the effort, but it doesn't budge.

What if Jack is suffocating under a portion of block like this? Heavy against his chest, and with each exhale, pushing down a little further, a little harder, until Jack can't draw breath.

His arm trembles as he tries to lift the slab again, muscles taut. With a cry of despair, he lies back, resting. Panting

Tears of frustration leaking from the corners of his eyes, dripping across his temples and into his hair.

He should have been able to stop the bomb. Jack, Matty, everyone counted on him. Believed he could do it. He tosses a handful of rubble in frustration. The ping of pebbles against brink and steel.

His fingers close around another handful of dirt and he pauses, feeling a small familiar shape. Tiny, plastic, and silicone. His heart leaps as recognizes it and he shoves his comm into his ear. It buzzes and squelches and he flinches, through the static, a comforting voice sings a lilting melody

_“Why were you armed? It’s Christmas time._  
_We should be home, where everything is fine,  
Not tiny bomb, not tiny bomb...”_

“Jack!” Mac calls out in relief. Jack is alive. He's fine. He's singing. Mac could cry in relief. He's no longer alone in the pain and darkness.

Except, Jack doesn't stop singing.

"Jack!" Mac yells again. "Can you hear me?"

"Oh, God, Mac? I can hear you. Can you hear us?" Riley replies, her voice sounds wet through the comms.

"It's faint, but yeah, I can hear you, Riles," Mac leans forward. His excitement and relief muting the pain the action causes. He's not alone. Not entirely.

"Oh thank goodness," she breathes a sigh of relief.

"Jack?" Mac calls again, frowning in confusion as the singing continues as though...

"He can't hear us. I don't know if he knows he's transmitting, or if he's just hoping for the best. I've been calling him for almost thirty minutes, doing everything I can on my end to boost his signal."

Mac lets his head fall back to the floor with a hollow clunk. "Is he okay?"

"He's singing."

Mac smiles, he can almost see the shrug he's sure Riley gave him.

"He was moaning and groaning right after the explosion. Yelling for you. I don't think he lost consciousness though," she sighs. 

"Are you sure that you don't have a transposer up your sleeve, Mac?" Jack asks, interrupting himself mid-verse. "That would be helpful right now."

Mac rolls his eyes but before he can make a comment that won't be heard, Jack continues.

"Yeah, yeah, I know a transporter, but I'm hoping if I irritate you enough you'll wake up and tell me to shut up with some fancy techie or Trekkie lingo," Jack snorts at his joke. "Nerd."

"I was hoping maybe you guys were together, at least near each other, since he kept talking to you," Riley says. "Thermals are hard to read. There are weird heat pockets left over from the bomb.

Mac pauses, listening, then sighs. "I can't hear him except through the comms."

"How are you doing? You were out for a long time." The worry is back in her voice.

"I wasn't out that whole time. Lost my comm in the explosion."

"Yeah?" Riley asks, disbelief in her voice. She sounds a lot like Jack right now. "But you were out for a while."

Mac could kick himself for letting himself slip. For letting her trap him like that. Maybe he does have a head injury, because he should have seen that coming. He murmurs an affirmative but doesn't expound on it.

"How bad are you hurt, Mac?" Jack's worried voice comes through the comms, causing Mac to jump.

He calls out to his partner, hoping that maybe Jack's receiver came back online, but Jack continues as if Mac hadn't spoken.

"You'd better be okay, hoss," Jack coughs. "C-cause I'm not gonna be okay if you're not. And I'm getting real lonely in this dark hole without anyone to talk to."

"Well, Mac? Your helicopter parent is also a mind reader. How badly are you hurt? So I can relay that information to the rescue teams."

"Definitely a concussion, don't know how bad," Mac admits. "It's dark so it's hard to tell if my vision is blurry."

"Dizziness, or nausea?"

"Um, I don't think I'm dizzy. A little nauseated but not sure if that's from the concussion. My uh, my shoulder's out." He winces as the injured joint protests again.

"Is there any way for you to get out of there?"

"No."

He hears the audible pause.

"Not without help. I'm stuck. My legs are pinned."

He hears her sharp intake of breath. "The rescue team arrived a few minutes ago.They're assessing the damage now. Hopefully, it won't be too much longer."

Jack coughs. "Mouth is pretty dry. Got any eggnog around here?" He gives a sharp chuckle that breaks off abruptly. "Don't know what the hell 'nog' is though."

Mac groans at the joke Jack's made at least twice a Christmas since he's known him.

"Riley, if we get out of here, remind me to tell you about Mac's favorite Christmas carol. Surprisingly, it's not O Tiny Bomb, which would be an appropriate choice for him."

Mac frowns, mind racing trying to figure out where Jack is going with this. What kind of awful, groan inducing pun he's going to come up with next.

"He needs to drink a whole lotta 'nog before he'll start singing it though," Jack's laughter breaks off with a cough.

"Riley, mute his comms. You don't want to hear about this."

"I think this is something I definitely need to hear. And depending on song choice, I might need to hear that too."

"It's just Jack, being Jack. Rambling about nothing."

"I can practically feel you blushing out here. I can only hope there's a video of whatever you did."

The comms fall silent.

Too quiet.

"Jack?" Mac can't help the need to query. "Riley, did you really mute him?" He can hear her nails clacking, and under the hum of static, harsh uneven breaths.

"Jack?" Riley's voice raises in alarm.

"Jack!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay "tune"-d for a Very Merry Carry from TANGOCHARLIE... the next update in their series ["The Carries"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1518266) later this month


	3. Chapter 3

Mac's head is covered for protection from the flying sparks as they cut away rebar to free him from his prison. It's no longer dark in his alcove. Illuminated by the caged trouble lights hanging from the exposed pipes.

It feels like hours ago that he first heard the thuds and clanking metal of the rescue crew. He'd protested them coming after him first.

_ "Tell them I’m fine and send them to Jack.” _

_ “I can’t do that, Mac.” _

_ “I’m fine. I’m awake, breathing. I can wait. We don’t know what condition Jack’s in. We don’t even know if he’s…” Mac had gasped, choking off that thought as panic swirled through the static in his brain, screaming at him to find a way out of this. _

_ “Mac, the building is unstable.” _

_ “Which is why they should go to him first,” Mac yelled. _

_ “It’s worse where Jack is. They have to shore it up, but they can’t do that until they get you out of there.” _

_ “No, Riley-” _

_ “Mac!” Riley interrupted. “They have to get you out first. There’s no other way. If you want, I’ll get the engineer over here to go over the plans with you.” _

_ Mac opened his mouth to protest again, then paused. “Matty vetted them, personally?” _

_ “Of course.” _

_ “Okay,” Mac reluctantly agreed, as if he had a say in the matter. “Then I trust them. They don’t need to waste their time talking to me. Just send them after Jack as soon as the building is stabilized.”  _

A medic sits with him under the tarp, flashing a penlight into his eyes. A blood pressure cuff wrapped snugly around his bicep to be reassessed when the saw is turned off again. The medic's hand wrapped around Mac's wrist, counting his pulse, which Mac is sure will be high.

Pain. Stress. The whine of the saw reverberating in the tiny space, and causing the concrete pressed against his legs to vibrate. Awakening with a vengeance an ache that hasn't dissipated since he woke. Only fading to the background when his greatest source of stress and anxiety, his concern for Jack, skyrockets.

The saw turns off. The tarp is pulled away. His blood pressure is rechecked.

"Okay, Mac, we're getting ready to pull you out. Let us do the work."

He would nod, but a cervical collar is already wrapped around his neck, holding his head in alignment. He takes a shallow breath, trying not to panic at the confining feeling. The medic leans over to meet his eyes, otherwise, Mac is staring straight up at the steel I-beam still balanced over his head. Reminding him of his helplessness.

In a practiced move, Mac is log rolled onto a backboard and strapped down.

"I was able to move my legs and arms without a problem," Mac protests as the harnesses are secured across him.

"We can't do anything about what you did earlier, but we can keep you from doing further damage. Crashing through the floor and dropping through a story wins you a backboard."

Mac sighs and tries to focus on anything else other than the fact that he can't move. This is worse than being trapped under a whole building.

He takes a breath to steady himself. 

"Have you heard anything from the second team?" Mac asks. "Jack? Have they found him yet?"

"Sorry, Mac. I haven't heard yet. I'll let you know as soon as I do. I'm going to cover you again while we pull you out of the wreckage so you don't get any more dust in your eyes."

Mac closes his eyes as the tarp is draped across him again. The fingers of his right hand gripping the sheet underneath him. He wishes the comm was still in his ear, so he could hear the moment the second team arrived at Jack's location. The backboard jostles as he is passed through the opening they cut into the wall. Then a steady rocking motion as he's carried from the building into the fresh air and too bright sunshine.

He'd been in the dark so long he'd forgotten it was still daylight.

Still Christmas Eve.

Still plenty of time for a Christmas miracle.

"Mac!" Riley yells as soon as she sees the rescue crew exiting the rubble with him. The backboard is strapped to a gurney as Riley runs up, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. She pauses, looking at his bruised and bloodied hand. He ignores the pain and slides his hand into hers.

Worried brown eyes stare down at him, and Mac blinks harshly. Blaming his watery eyes on the dust and the sunlight. The clean tracks down grimy cheeks don't have such an excuse.

"I'm okay, Riles," he promises, watching her take in all the restraints holding him down. "I’m fine.”

To her credit, she doesn't call him on his lie.

It's not really a lie. He's been hurt worse than this. He'll recover. He will be fine, as long as Jack is fine.

She follows him to the ambulance.

"You should stay here," Mac protests as he's loaded into the back. "In case."

"Jack would want me to stay with you," she says decisively, climbing in behind him. Her hand finding his again, gently rubbing her thumb against his abraded skin. She parks herself by his side, like Jack would.

Unlike Jack, she does give him some privacy after he's settled in a cubicle in the emergency department. Excusing herself when the doctor arrives, promising to check on the progress of the rescue crew, squeezing Mac's hand as she leaves the room.

Mac watches her go, anxiously. Suffering through x-rays and eye washes alone while his mind is still trapped in the dark, listening for Jack's voice over fuzzy comms. The comings and goings of the staff are lost on him. He can't turn his head to see the door. Completely at their mercy until his imaging comes back clear. His shoulder is manipulated back into place with a shout of pain and strapped to his chest to immobilize it. His forehead stitched and ointment applied to the small cuts that pepper his face and neck. His bloodied and abused knuckles cleaned and dressed.

The door opens again and Mac awaits another round of imaging, or stitches, or neuro checks with small penlights flashing in his eyes. Holding out little hope that his head will ever be released from its confines. He hates the way the exam lights burn above him, blinding. Leave him feeling exposed. And he's helpless to do anything about them except close his eyes.

"You were right, hoss. That wasn't a tiny bomb."

"Jack!" Mac yells, struggling against the restraints that hold him in immobile.

"Hey, easy, easy, there, tiger." Jack's voice is breathless.

Mac hears the squeak of a wheel and the creaking of pleather, and tries to turn his head again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Riley pushing a wheelchair containing Jack up to the cot he's resting on. Jack groans as eases himself out of the chair.

Riley protests. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Can't rest until I know he's okay. You didn't tell me about the neck brace," Jack's hand brushes lightly through the hair above Mac's ear.

"It's a precaution," Mac reassures. His eyes scanning his partner, assessing his injuries. A thick patch of gauze is secured to his forehead, and another on his neck. He’s pale, even next to the stark bandages. "How did you avoid one?"

"I wasn't buried under half a building. Didn't get thrown like you did either. Scared me there, hoss. Watching you disappear from sight like that. Ground swallowing you whole."

"You scared me too. You went quiet and I didn't know what happened."

"I've got a pretty decent sized concussion," Jack admits reluctantly, fingers probing the bandage on his forehead with a wince. "Couple broken ribs. I coughed hard enough to knock myself out, I guess."

"All self-diagnosed," Riley grumbles. "They scanned his head, but he hasn't seen the doctor yet."

Jack waves away the concern. "I'll see him. I know better than to try to get out of medical care, unlike some young'uns who think they're superhuman. I just needed to see said young'un first." He scans Mac from head to toe, taking in the bruises and stitches with soft, empathetic eyes. "And you said there weren't any miracles on forty-third street."

* * *

_ "O Angus MacGyver,  
_ _ We’re so happy you’re home." _

"Oh no," Mac murmurs with a chuckle, rolling his eyes at Jack. He's partially reclined in the easy chair in his living room, a hard fought battle to be discharged in time for Christmas Eve at home. His legs elevated, as promised, pain medication administered and sling in place.  He accepts a steaming cup of hot chocolate from Bozer, who double checks on said sling, and adjusts the pillow wedge under in arm for additional support. 

Riley hands Jack a mug. He is stretched out on the couch, pillow bracing his broken ribs, for the inevitable cough from plaster dust that still plagues him and causes him to see stars. Despite the puppy dog eyes he flashes in her direction, she appears less attentive than Bozer is with Mac. But her hand lingers on his shoulder, and after obtaining her own mug, settles on the couch next to him, snuggling closer than she might normally, sharing her blanket with him. Or rather, sharing his own snuggie with him. 

_ "O Angus MacGyver  
We’re so happy you’re home." _

"They were more reluctant to let you go home than they were me," Mac protests the song. "I got my discharge paperwork before you did."

_ "By the light of the Christmas tree,  
You’re safe and sound and back with your family” _

Jack warbles the vowels and stretches syllables to fit the lyrical prose of the song.

Desi winces dramatically, plugging an ear while she queues up the television.

“I’m really okay. Pain meds are working.” Mac complains as he watches Jack brace his ribs again with a painful grunt. "You're supposed to be taking it easy. Not trying to sing a cowboy opera."  


_ “He says he’s okay,  
But I don’t believe.   
I think that he’s   
just trying to make me feel relieved.”  _

Mac snorts. “You write the worst Christmas carols.”

“Excuse you, I write the best Christmas carols. I make them relevant to the situation. O Christmas tree? Who cares? Why are you singing to a tree?"

"It wasn't originally written as a Christmas carol. The evergreen was used as a symbol of faithfulness."

"How long have you been waiting to pull that one out?" Jack teases.

"Since you first started butchering the song this morning."

"Well, I maintain that my lyrics are superior. Any guy who dislocates his shoulder and fractures his pelvis disarming a bomb on Christmas Eve, gets a free carol written by Jack Dalton.”

With a grimace, Mac replies. "It's a stress fracture "

"Aren't they always? You're fractured and I'm stressed."

"Well, I've had about as much 'O Christmas Tree' as I can handle," Riley interrupts. "I've also had enough Christmas flavored bombs in office buildings for one year. Sorry Jack, but Bozer, Desi, Leanna and I took a vote, and three to one against Die Hard as our Christmas Eve entertainment."  


Jack opens his mouth to protests, then with a glance at Mac, his eyes soften and he changes his mind. "Yeah, yeah, that's fair. What did make the cut?"

"Mac," Riley smiles at him. "I think you're gonna like this one."

Desi hits play and familiar opening music fills the room. "We thought maybe you'd like to sing along?"

"Jack!" Mac yells, cheeks flushing pink. 

His partner cackles in delight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another plug for TangoCharlie's upcoming Christmas Carry. Any guesses about what song that might be?
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Sorry that it's so late today. The day definitely go away from me. Should be back to my bright and early posting tomorrow!


End file.
